


The Full Tour

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Journalist!John, M/M, Military Kink, PWP, Rocker AU, basically pure smut, bottomlock, rocker!sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What I want,” John says, and his voice is pleasant, hot against Sherlock’s throat, and there’s something underneath it too, something blood-bright and blade-sharp, “is for you to give me the full tour.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Full Tour

Sherlock is running late.

It’s not a thing he thinks about particularly; in fact, he doesn’t actually count anything within the hour he’s expected as late at all, and people love to wait for him.

The meeting was set for four o’clock and it’s only just after five and so he isn’t at all concerned.

He’s flanked by one of Mycroft’s meatiest minions on his right (he’s sure this has more to do with an attempt to intimidate _him_ than any crazed fan he might encounter), and his manager’s on his left (likely insisted to come along in the hope that her presence will mitigate Sherlock’s tendency to eat journalists alive—adorable, really, that). As they enter the hotel lounge it’s only too easy to tell which patron is there—has been there for going on seventy-five minutes, now—waiting for him.

The man is short. His hair is a dishwater sort of colour that’s got more grey in it than anything else and his face is handsome, if weathered. He’s wearing a dark blue checked button-up with a matching cardigan and jeans, and his belt and shoes are a sensible brown. He’s fit, and tidy, neat and clean all around the edges, the type Sherlock likes to roughen up and pull apart. His eyes are dark, and it’s not until they’ve come right up to the high top where he’s seated that Sherlock can tell they’re sort of navy blue, and distressed.

“I’m so sorry we’re late, Mr. Watson.” Helène is apologising for him, so Sherlock does his level best to look the least contrite he’s ever been.

Sherlock smiles, saunters close, bares his teeth and says, “ _Well_. Hello.”

 

***

 

“So, Mr. Holmes—”

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock’s grin is all feline, and predatory.

“Sherlock, then. There’s a lot of talk about your decision to start the upcoming brief American leg of your tour. What led you to choose to do five shows, all in the American northeast, before returning again to finish up with the European cities?”

“My brother is all wrapped up in their politics, and has to make the trip overseas. Where he goes, I follow.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“I’m not trusted by myself,” Sherlock says, and watches John’s expression change to that of a cat who’s found the cream. “They’ve not yet found a manager whose watch I cannot evade; therefore, my brother takes me where he goes.”

“Evade?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sips his whiskey, lets it sit on his tongue before making a deliberate show of swallowing. He watches John’s eyes as they linger on his throat, and smirks. “I’m told I can at times cause an enormous amount of trouble.”

“I see.” John coughs, clears his throat.

“But you can’t print that.”

“No?” John asks, and looks like nothing so much as having every intention of doing so.

“If you print anything about my brother, he’ll likely have you sacked. And if you print anything about his involvement in American politics, he’ll possibly have you killed.”

“So really, you’re not interested in offering me any useful information for my article at all, then.” John sighs and stops his recorder, pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes, and Sherlock thinks he looks charming.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock agrees. “I might be enticed into doing so if you were to join me.”

“Join you?”

“In my suite, of course.”

“Mr. Holmes,” John says firmly, and his tone sends a shiver of delicious promise up Sherlock’s spine, “if this interview is going continue, and if it’s going to take place anywhere but here, it’ll be at a location of my choosing. Clear?”

Sherlock rises silkily and lets the front of his body glide all along John’s back as he moves behind him, puts his mouth just beside John’s ear and purrs, “Crystal.”

 

***

 

“I live just round the corner,” Sherlock says once they’re outside on the pavement.

“You booked a hotel suite round the corner from your own home?” John’s eyebrows lift. “Why?”

“I never invite journalists into my flat.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

“Yes, I think so,” Sherlock says, and hopes not just a little that as he walks deliberately ahead, John’s taking in the view.

 

***

 

“Not sure what I’ve got in,” Sherlock says as they enter. “Tea, probably. If Mrs. Hudson has done the shopping.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” John’s wandering through the sitting room, running a finger along the mantel, starting a bit at the dagger, and the skull.

“She’d tell you she’s not my housekeeper, but she’d be lying,” Sherlock drawls as he saunters into the kitchen and opens his liquor cabinet. “Whiskey, too, if you want.”

He turns and is surprised by how quickly John’s crossed the room, gotten right up close and inside Sherlock’s space. John tips his head up and without quite meaning to, Sherlock’s baring his own neck.

“What I want,” John says, and his voice is pleasant, hot against Sherlock’s throat, and there’s something underneath it too, something blood-bright and blade-sharp, “is for you to give me the full tour.”

 

***

 

“So this is the bedroom.” John walks in as if he belongs there and out of nowhere, something in Sherlock’s gut flutters.

“There’s another upstairs,” he blurts out; he doesn’t know why.

John raises an eyebrow. “What do you keep up there, then?”

“My clothes.”

John’s eyes dart toward the wardrobe and back again. “Clothes.”

“I’ve got a lot of clothes.”

John looks him up and down and Sherlock stands a bit taller. He’s wearing artfully ripped slim black denims and a threadbare tee shirt that doesn’t leave his torso much of a mystery and he feels his skin burn hot where John’s eyes skim over it.

“What?” he asks, defensive.

“Nothing,” John replies, “just you must spend a lot of time running up and down the stairs starkers.” He’s joking, Sherlock thinks, but the way a man jokes about eating a horse when he’s absolutely _famished_.

John sits on the bed, tests it against his weight. “Nice bed. Spacious. Sturdy.” He looks Sherlock dead in the eye and adds, “Bet you could do a lot with it.”

And then it’s less than a second before Sherlock is on him, pushing between John’s legs and bending to press John back against the mattress with his hands and lips and teeth, but before he can get himself on top, John’s grabbing him, tightening his thighs around Sherlock’s legs and flipping them over, shoving Sherlock down onto his back and holding him by the wrists above his head.

“John Watson,” he breathes, “you’re rather dangerous, aren’t you.” He reaches up to nip and lick at John’s lower lip.

John allows it, then pulls back. “Could be,” he agrees.

“ _Are_ you?”

John shifts and then they’re pressed together at the groin, and Sherlock’s hard in his trousers, cock straining against the zip of his jeans and he loathes John’s apparently masterful self-control.

“I killed a man, once,” John says.

Something hot in Sherlock’s belly seems to bloom up at that, and his cock pulses. “Is that right?”

“Mm. Shot him.”

“Did you?”

“Had to. He was shooting at my boyfriend.”

Sherlock looks at John, glimpses a bit of paler skin just below John’s collar and feels the way John’s body bears down on his own, does a quick mental recalculation and says, “You’re a soldier.”

“Captain,” John supplies.

“Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Invalided out.”

Sherlock pushes his hips up slightly, rubs himself against where John is now more than half-hard and is rewarded with a gruff curse as John presses down hard on his wrists. It’s weaker on the left side. “Shoulder?” he asks.

John’s grin is wry. “He _was_ quicker,” he agrees. He leans in and breathes right up against Sherlock’s ear, “But I have better aim.”

 

***

 

Sherlock is flat on his back, hips tilted up and legs wrapped round John’s middle, marvelling that John’s aim must absolutely be no less than flawless, each exhale a close-cut moan wrung from the back of his throat. “John,” he gasps.

John pushes Sherlock’s thighs apart and down and pumps harder.

“You thought you had me all worked out, didn’t you?” John asks as he drives home a particularly delicious thrust. “Jumper and jeans, cushy desk job. You thought you’d like to muss me up and fuck me, have yourself a right little treat taking me apart.”

Sherlock wants to answer, he really does, only his voice is lost someplace in the space between his belly and his lungs, and all he can manage is a broken “ _Please—_ ”

“Did you want something?” John puts a hand around Sherlock’s cock and pumps twice, rubs at his frenulum with his thumb before massaging his fingers around the head, across the slit, spreading the precome that’s leaking there. “Is this what you want?”

He pulls his hand away again to grip at Sherlock’s thigh, cruelly hard, and Sherlock sobs as his cock bounces wetly against his abdomen.

“Shh,” John croons, and his thrusts are neverending, relentless and punishing and it’s just so _much_ , and Sherlock writhes and groans and pushes back against him as John leans into it, bows low and promises, “you’ll get yours, Sherlock, I promise you that.”

John moves up and away again, pulls his cock almost all the way out and Sherlock can feel it, can feel John as he holds himself there, the fat wet tip just breaching him as he whines and bucks and tries fruitlessly to struggle against John’s grip on his legs.

“But not,” John says, his voice low and thrilling, “before I’ve had mine.”

 

***

 

“You won’t write about this,” Sherlock says, passing John his half-smoked cigarette.

John pulls on it, releases the smoke and passes it back. “No,” he agrees.

“You won’t even talk about it.”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” John says easily. “I’m not embarrassed.”

Sherlock turns his head, observes John’s soft brow, his relaxed jaw. “No,” he confirms. “You’re not. But you’ve got demands.”

“Questions, yes.”

“For the article.”

“For the article.”

Sherlock lets out a low, deep chuckle. “Do you know, every single person you work for must be a complete idiot,” he says.

John laughs too. “Not saying they're not, but why is that?”

Sherlock props himself up, leans over John to put out the cigarette and replies, “Because you, John Watson, are a far more interesting subject than I could ever be.”

John looks up at him and there’s a glint of something dark and filthy behind his gaze. “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Sherlock considers this, bends low and licks at the smoky flavour lingering on John’s lips. “Mm,” he hums, “ask away.”

**Author's Note:**

> A [commission](http://wearitcounts.tumblr.com/post/74692543283/peeks-from-behind-the-bushes-hi-um-i-heard-you-do) for the lovely [Ashley](http://guixonlove.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you to Jen, Leslie, and Anna for all the cheerleading and beta.


End file.
